The Journal
by Liyra
Summary: Quatre's last thoughts in his journal....and what he decides to do.


Ah, so we meet again? Perhaps not, but here is a story of guilt and longing, looking to do the right thing when the chance is already lost. Perhaps you know what I'm speaking of. Maybe your mind refuses to accept it. Maybe I would never be a good gypsy. Ah well, I am not here to please everyone, mainly myself. But isn't that what we're all looking for? To please ourselves, and if we please others in the process, then that is an extra bonus? I shrug. I do not know.  
  
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters. I own the story line and the ideas, for they are all mine. I wish I owned the brandy. I could really use some right now.  
  
The Journal  
February 21  
  
I don't know why it happened. Sometimes at night, I wake up in a cold sweat, shaking and scared, and I don't even know what happened, for sure. I mean, one minute, he was standing there, fine as can be, talking, and even laughing, and the next, he was gone.  
  
The laughing should have given it away. He never laughs. Well-laughed. Even after the hell we called our lives ended and we were free to be normal, he was reserved. I think it's because he felt useless, and didn't know how to handle that. He thought we didn't want him around, which was, for the most part, a complete and total lie. So what if 01 and 05 didn't care? They never cared; only if the doctors told them to. And the doctors never wanted them to care, the bastards only thought of us as machines; robots to do what they programmed us to do.  
  
Which in a way they were right. We were willing to do what they told us to do; whatever we could do to support the cause. Whatever the hell that meant. I don't even know anymore. Sometimes I wonder if I ever really knew. But they never thought of after the war. What it would do to us, to them. I guess they thought that if they could save Earth and the colonies the sacrifice of five teenage boys was acceptable.  
  
Well I don't. Some people say that I cared about him as more than a friend. Hell, we weren't really friends, just two Gundam pilots who happened to meet and were friendly toward one another when we met up again. We were sort of friends, more than acquaintances, and more than two friendly people, but not really good friends. But being the cursed kind, people loving type that I am, I cared for him. In a way, I care for everyone, even the enemy, because I think of them as humans-people like me told to fight for a cause they really don't understand, and not sure they believe in. To me, they are someone's mother, father, brother, sister, husband, wife, whatever. And, like me, they are just following orders.  
  
We were never lovers, were never like that. I know I personally couldn't think about love and sex and whatever else at a time like the wars. Even after the wars, I felt too numb and empty to look for love. It just didn't seem important. I guess I didn't even try to help him adjust, and I feel guilty for that. He needed me, needed the contact of another human that knew what it was all really like. And I needed him. I didn't see it. How could I not? I have no idea when I lost that connection to my soul. How long had I been like this? It was hard to tell. There was always a part of our souls leaving us with each base we destroyed each mobile suit we crushed. I just didn't notice when it slipped away. He stayed with me for a while, probably in hopes that I would help him, and when he realized I wasn't, he thought that I didn't care. If I could only take back the time. If I could, I would never have fought. I would never have met any of the Gundam pilots, including him, but would that have been so bad? I didn't help him, and now look. He's dead. Killed himself. And all because of me. Would he really have been any worse off had we never met? I don't think so. He could have gone back to his life, tried to salvage what was left. I know, he could have done that even though we had met, but I don't think he would have ended up dead. In hoping for contact, adjustment and acceptance, he found-thought he found that we didn't care. Had we never met, I wouldn't have made him think that at all. I let him down. I killed him. Indirectly, I killed him. I know I will never forgive myself. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
And so, with a heavy heart, Quatre closed the leather-bound, dog- eared journal. He pushed back the large mahogany chair he sat in, and walked to the fireplace. The fire burned cheerily, illuminating the Arabian's face in an eerie manner. The shadows played across his young face, finding every hidden line, defining each weary crease. He looked much older than his twenty years. Quatre walked back to the desk on which the book lay. He took from the case behind it a decanter of brandy, and a glass. Out of a drawer he pulled a small paper packet. The blonde poured the brandy, and emptied the powder contents of the small packet into it. The white crystals dissolved immediately. "Allah forgive me," he whispered before downing the whole contents of the glass. He would leave the journal for Rashid, in explanation of why he had done what he had done. The man would understand, he always did. They would mourn him, and give the death ceremony, and when Rashid organized them, as he always did, they would vow not to forget their young master, and they would keep their vows. They would serve their next master well, or maybe Rashid would get them all jobs doing something else, but they would keep their vows. Quatre knew all this with conviction. Tired, that's what he was. He wanted nothing more than to lie down and sleep. Already dressed in his silk sleeping clothes, he climbed into the large bed. He covered himself with the deep blue coverlet and put his head against the pillow. Quatre closed his eyes, knowing he wouldn't be waking up. 


End file.
